


a whisper in the ear.

by bittertofu



Series: thirty-five ways he said 'i love you.' [14]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 15:10:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11061594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittertofu/pseuds/bittertofu
Summary: He wouldn't, couldn't, fall apart.





	a whisper in the ear.

**Author's Note:**

> a series of drabbles.
> 
> mreh. i don't really like this one. i edited it a lot, more than i edited the others, but it's still *wavy hand motions*. i don like the transition, i don like the ending. i should be studying, but oh well~~~~
> 
> you can follow my writing blog at http://www.moogleizer.tumblr.com for story updates, comments, questions, and more! <3

Akira had just set down a plate of curry in front of a customer sitting at the counter when Akechi came in, purpose blazing in his eyes. He slammed the piece of notebook paper onto the counter top, all folded up.

“What is the meaning of this?” Akechi demanded.

Akira looked at the piece of paper and said nothing. His face was void of any discernible expression, and Akechi wished he could reach across the counter and shake some kind of reaction out of him.

He was tired. Tired of these games, tired of Akira saying things he didn't mean. Tired of feeling like he was at Akira's mercy, like Akira had him in a vice that was squeezing, squeezing, squeezing him in from all sides. It wasn't supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be entirely the other way around.

“It's a note,” said Akira, flatly.

Akechi grit his teeth before composing himself and flashing a sweet smile.

“I can see that,” he said. “Any reason you left it in my pocket?”

“Wanted you to read it.”

So simple. So matter-of-fact. So straight-to-the-point obvious. Now Akechi _really_ wanted to slap him.

He wasn't getting anywhere like this. His impulse to bunch up the paper into a wad and throw it at Akira's face wouldn't have been very productive, considering the couple of customers still left and Sojiro quietly observing from a corner. Not that he would have done it anyway. It would have been uncharacteristic of the Goro Akechi that Akira had come to know and expect. No, as much as he wanted to enact some sort of violence upon Akira Kurusu, he had to bide his time. The day would come when he could inflict the ultimate violence, and no one would be able to stop him.

Akechi was about to turn and walk out of Leblanc, leaving the damning piece of paper behind him for good, when Akira's voice stopped him.

“Wait for me a bit,” Akira said. “We'll be closing up soon.”

There was nothing in Akechi that wanted to wait for Akira for even one moment, especially not when he was ordered to. He turned back around to decline, no excuse needed, but his tongue betrayed him.

“Alright,” he said, giving himself a solid, mental kick, horrified and baffled by his own response. “I'll hear what you have to say.”

He sat down. He ordered coffee. He waited.

Other than giving him his coffee, Akira didn't pay Akechi any mind for the rest of Leblanc's open hours. Even Sojiro dropped by Akechi's end of the counter, made some small talk, apologized on Akira's behalf because he assumed that hanging around him must be causing Akechi a lot of trouble.

More than you can imagine, Akechi thought, smiling politely.

“Oh, no,” Akechi said. “You underestimate him. Kurusu is quite the upstanding guy.”

“Hm! I doubt that.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Akechi saw Akira smile at Sojiro's comment. Rage and loathing stabbed him, short, sharp blades. His rage turned into dark laughter bubbling up inside, but he swallowed it down.

The fact of the matter was, he realized, semi-triumphant, that Akira was weak. He needed all sorts of connections to get by. Needed to surround himself with people and more people, people to whom he got attached, people who got attached to him. That's why Akechi was better than him. Akechi had been alone always, would be alone always. There was nothing and no one to hold him back. That's why, when push came to shove, Akechi would defeat Akira oh so easily. But, he hoped, not too easily. Considering all he'd done to manipulate Akechi up until now, if Akira didn't at least pose somewhat of a challenge at the end, it might be disappointing.

Akechi sipped at his coffee, letting the bitter bite of his hatred fester, nursing it until it was overwhelming. This. This was what he needed. This was normal, it could be dealt with. The tension in his back and shoulders eased, just a bit.

It took forever and a day for the customers to leave, as if curiosity at what Akira would say to Akechi kept them glued to their seats until the last possible moment. Indeed, as first one, then the other, left, they each cast peering glances over their shoulders at Akechi, who smiled and waved. It took awhile for Sojiro to clean up, to prep for the following day, and by the time he finally left, telling Akira to be sure to lock up, Akechi was ready to scream.

The moment Sojiro walked out the door, Akechi glared at Akira and crossed his arms.

“Explain yourself.”

Akira chuckled, caught in the middle of undoing his apron. “You get right to the point, don't you?”

“I want to know what it means, your ridiculous letter. Last I checked, the only person I belonged to was myself.”

“Well, that's true,” Akira said pensively, leaning forward with one elbow against the counter top and one hand on his chin. The grin that spread slow across his face made Akechi's heart skip, which he attributed to his anger. “And to me, too.”

“You're absurd.”

More laughter. Akechi blustered, threw out venomous, accusatory words meant to cut down and render humble, but Akira just smiled and shook his head.

“There you go,” said Akira, “ruffling up like a bird.”

“I am _not_ a—”

“No,” Akira interrupted. “But you look just like one when you're flustered. A parakeet, maybe.”

“I'm not flustered,” is what Akechi wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat, because despite his boiling rage, despite his loathing, he _was_ flustered, and he didn't know how to handle it. The heat in his cheeks confirmed it. The fluttering in his stomach confirmed it. His rapidly beating heart more than confirmed it. All he wanted to do was _run, run, run—_ that's what every fiber of his being told him, demanded him, to do. It was fight or flight, and Akechi did not feel strong enough to fight right now. It aggravated him. He hated it, and, more than anything else in the entirety of his life, he hated Akira Kurusu.

Say it, he thought to himself, biting down on his bottom lip. Just say it. Tell him how much you hate him, how much you can't stand the sight or sound of him. Tell him you want to break his fingers one-by-one, that you want to snap his neck and laugh over his ruined body.

“Kurusu,” he said, quietly, evenly. “As ever, you continue to surprise me.”

Of course he couldn't say all the things he really felt, not without giving himself away. So he settled for that, words so benign they couldn't be interpreted as anything other than a disinterested observation.

Akira hummed low in his throat, a dissatisfied noise. He ran the index finger of his free hand in circles on the counter.

“I'm not trying to surprise you,” Akira began (and he walked his fingers over to Akechi's left hand, plucked gingerly at his glove). “I'm being as clear as I can.”

 _Clear_ was not a word Akechi would have used to describe Akira on any day. If this was him being clear, Akechi was curious what Akira was like when he was vague. (He stared at the long, slender fingers now playing with the hem of his sleeve, ignored his tightening throat).

“Your clarity,” said Akechi, voice lower and breathier than he meant for it to be, “is awfully opaque.”

And when, Akechi wondered, had Akira gotten so close to his face? When had their fingers become intertwined? Akira closed the gap between them, took Akechi's lips in a soft, near unbearably shy, kiss. Akechi didn't stop him. Kissed back just as softly, in fact, recoiling at how much he missed this, how much and how wholly he needed this.

You hate him, Akechi told himself, even as his heart beat faster, even as his tongue met with Akira's tongue. You hate him ( _stomach sinking_ ), you want to break him ( _chest tightening_ ), you want to rip from him everything he loves ( _hands shaking, shaking, shaking in his gloves_ ).

Akira broke their kiss long enough to walk around the counter, to stand between Akechi's open legs and and put hands on his waist. Then he kissed Akechi again, fully, greedily, shamelessly expressing his burning need. Akechi's hands wandered Akira's chest, wandered his stomach, gripped at his sides and pulled him closer still.

Stop, he told himself, over and over again. _Stop_.

But his body had other ideas. Even as his mind screamed at him, his body cried out for more. Deeper, rougher, closer.

When Akira pulled away from him, Akechi detested the needy whimper that escaped him, quiet as it was. Akira pressed his lips right against Akechi's ear.

“You,” Akira breathed, his warmth tickling Akechi's skin. Akechi shivered, clung tight to the front of Akira's shirt. “Are.” He nuzzled his lips against Akechi's earlobe, rolled it gently between his teeth. “Mine.”

The last word was practically a growl, a feral sound loaded with such hungry _want_ that Akechi couldn't possibly ignore its implications. He felt tight in more places than one.

He pulled back enough to look into Akira's eyes, to study them, to drown in the sheer darkness behind them. Then, he leaned in close, brushed his lips against Akira's lips. Akira's heart beneath his hand beat a hard, erratic rhythm.

Akechi smiled, coy and a little cruel. “Then take me," he said, voice a playful whisper.

Mouths crashed. Hands knotted into clothes, into hair.

Akechi forgot, for the moment, about the folded note, disregarded on the counter top. He forgot, for the moment, his desire to murder the man in his arms. He even forgot, if only for the moment, what it felt like to despise him.

When Akira Kurusu took him so possessively like this, with such open and unrestrained desire, it was almost easy to forget about absolutely everything. It was almost, he thought passingly, easy to lose himself—to think, to hate, to fear, nothing at all.

With his words, with his body, Akira Kurusu reached deep inside of Goro Akechi. Pulled him close. Shook him, so, so sweetly, straight to his very core.

 


End file.
